


You Promised Forever And A Day (And Then You Take It All Away)

by AgentOklahoma



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, curse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentOklahoma/pseuds/AgentOklahoma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from Framesonthewall - Altmal fic prompt: something with them turning into animals, one by day, one by night? :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Brother, why do we die?”

Malik paused his quill over the parchment, thinking over his answer as Kadar waited patiently by his desk, swinging his feet back and forth on the too-big chair he was all but trapped in during his time ‘observing kingly duties’, as Rauf put it.

“Why do you ask?” Malik replied, continuing with his work.

“The scholars in the library said that it is because our bodies age or become ill and too weak to work anymore,” Kadar frowned, obviously unsatisfied with this answer. Malik put the quill in its inkwell, allowing himself a moment’s reprieve, leaning back against the plush surface of his chair, gazing at his younger brother’s expectant face.

“And you disagree with them?”

“I liked mother’s version,” Kadar answered, the edge of his boot grazing the stone floor beneath his chair as he swung his legs back and forth.

“I don’t recall mother having an opinion on such a dismal topic as death,” Malik mused, glancing towards the painting on the wall depicting their parents, a severe looking man seated on the throne with his crown placed immaculately on his head while a beautiful woman stood beside him, a hand placed on his shoulder and a kind look adorning her face. Though the painter tried, they could not truly capture her compassionate nature and kind eyes, no matter how long they attempted it.

“She said we die to be with the people we love,” Kadar explained, fiddling with the button on his tunic, the string nearly worn to the point of breaking from its constant use as the object of Kadar’s straying attention.

“And when there are none to wait for us to pass?” Malik rolled parchments, sealing them and leaving them for the courier to take around the city.

“Then we are there to welcome our loved ones that come after us,” the young boy replied as if it were an obvious thing. Malik smiled and stood from his seat, gently ruffling Kadar’s hair as he passed.

“Come, brother. I am sure Rauf is expecting you for your next lesson. I will walk with you,” the older brother said, leaving his office. As the pair made their way through the corridors, Kadar ambled behind his older brother, his focus drifting from thing to uninteresting thing until a shadow loomed over him. The young boy let out a squeak, reaching out and gripping his brother’s robes tightly before figuring out what had cast the shadow.

“Altaïr. While your behaviour is appreciated when it comes to unnerving foreign officials, it is not when it is directed towards the prince. Apologise,” Malik ground out, his venomous gaze, normally enough to leave a grown man quaking in fear and grovelling at his feet, left the head of the royal guard unimpressed but he apologised nonetheless.

“My apologies, Prince Kadar,” Altaïr said stiffly, a hand over his heart as he bent forward in what could barely be called a bow.

“Be glad your skilled outweighs your insolence or your head would be in a basket by the block,” Malik growled. Altaïr stood upright once more, his scarred lips and stubbled chin the only portion of his face visible, the rest shrouded in the shadow cast by the ample hood he was never seen without but Kadar fancied that he could see the Royal Guardsman’s eyes glow beneath the darkness at times when he was examining visitors that came within arm’s reach of the King and his younger brother.

“If my loyalty to the crown was not my strongest trait, it would be someone else’s head in that basket, _your imperial majesty_ ,” Altaïr replied, voice saccharine sweet and full of implications that Malik could not punish him for without seeming paranoid and without losing the best fighter in the kingdom.

“I believe the prince and I are safe enough within these halls to be without your presence. You are dismissed,” Malik ordered, waving the man off and turning to leave. Altaïr’s lips contorted into a frown of irritation that lasted only a brief moment before evening out into a straight line as he vanished from sight. Malik let out a sigh and led Kadar away, wondering for a second what Altaïr did when he wasn’t in the immediate vicinity before the thought slipped through his fingers like smoke when Kadar tugged on his robes again.

“Is Altaïr going to be our guard forever?” the boy asked.

“He is loyal and has yet to be bested by anyone in the kingdom so it would be unwise to remove him from his position. Why? Does he frighten you?” Malik asked with a concerned furrow to his brow.

“No. I was only startled. I like him. He keeps the monsters away,” Kadar answered with a seriousness that surprised Malik, but before the older brother could find the words to respond, the prince pulled away, calling out to his primary tutor, Rauf, quickly wishing Malik a good day as he went off to start his next lesson and to leave Malik alone to contemplate their conversation.

-

“Your Majesty,” Altaïr greeted with a degree more reverence than earlier that day but Malik quickly found the reason when he looked up from the documents littering his desk and saw that behind his guard stood a lord and frequent visitor of the fortress.

“Lord Sofian. To what do I owe this…meeting?” Malik asked civilly. Abbas bowed too deeply to be anything other than an insincere gesture, not seeing the almost painful look of disgust and disdain Altaïr levelled towards him on his way to take his place by Malik’s desk, masking his obviously negative feelings for Abbas under layers of disinterest and stoicism.

“I wished to extend an offer, your Imperial Majesty,” Abbas explained, more a performance than a statement spoken through lips curled upwards in an unnerving mockery of a smile.

“Elaborate on this ‘offer’,” Malik requested with a gesture, hoping it was something simple that could be over in a minute more, before the aura of ‘wrong’ seeped too deeply into the office walls and Malik would have to retreat, unable to get more work done without the unbearable shivers running down his spine.

“My ward, Aliya.“

“A child is not an offer,” Altaïr bit out before he could stop himself. Abbas looked enraged and offended, as did all the nobleman Altaïr spoke to but a withering look from Malik and the way Altaïr played at apologetic seemed to satisfy Abbas.

“Aliya is nearing her 5th birthday and the Sofian family would be deeply honoured if she could be considered for the crowned prince’s bride when he comes of age,” the lord concluded, dipping into another bow as he awaited Malik’s response. Malik and Altaïr’s eyes met, the guardsman silently begging to kill this man where he stood and the king barely managing to keep himself from accepting Altaïr’s unspoken offer.

“It will be up to Prince Kadar to select his own bride, when the time comes,” Malik could almost feel the satisfaction seeping from his guard at the thinly veiled irritation Abbas showed before the Lord put on his false-smile.

“Absolutely, but would you not agree that a powerful family would be better suited to be joined to the crown’s name rather than some nameless trollop that happens to smile at the right time? My ward could be introduced early and-“

Abbas ceased speaking when Malik stood from his seat, an aura of rage enveloping him, reducing the Lord’s words to an unintelligible mess.

“There is no _waiting list_ for the prince. He will choose his own bride without meddling from any families and any ‘nameless trollop’ he chooses will be welcomed as the new Queen when the time comes for him to take the crown. Am I clear, _Lord Sofian?_ ” Malik spoke with a level tone and yet was far more threatening than if he’d screamed into Abbas’ face. The lord in question held his chin up, murder in his eyes as he murmured his assent and dismissed himself, stalking out of the office and allowing Malik a modicum of peace.

“Is an ‘accident’ permitted to befall Lord Sofian on his way home from the fortress?” Altaïr asked.  
  
“No.”

“He will survive. Probably.”

“Altaïr. Is it time to accompany the Prince from his studies to his quarters?” the king dragged a hand over his face and in the brief moment that he’d closed his eyes, Altaïr had vanished from his office without a word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some more prodding at the character dynamic between Malik and Altair before we get into the plot heavy stuff.

**_Chapter Two_ **

“Malik.”

The king’s eyes flickered open blearily, taking in his surroundings slowly as he woke, brow furrowed as he wondered why there were bookshelves in his bedroom and why his pillow felt like wood.

“Your majesty, you have a meeting with the merchant’s guild in half an hour, I don’t believe you would forgive me if I allowed you to go to the meeting looking so unkempt,” the familiar rumble of Altaïr’s voice close to his side pulling him further from sleep. Malik pushed himself up and away from his desk, running his fingers uselessly through his hair in an attempt to sort out what must have been a complete mess after spending the night sleeping at his desk.

“Thank you Altaïr,” Malik rasped, standing unsteadily and making his way over to the cabinet, the bottom-most drawer hiding spare robes for him to change into after long nights such as the one before. Altaïr stood watch, facing away from the king as he changed, more out of habit than legitimate modesty.

“Altaïr. My brother told me that he wished you to stay as our guardsman. When I asked his reason, he told me you ‘keep the monsters away’,” Malik spoke as he adjusted his clothing, making the deep red robes presentable before checking his reflection in a particularly well-polished silver plate he kept for this exact purpose. His hair was a wreck and there was a splotch of ink staining his left cheek from sleeping on top of too-new documents but it was soon remedied with some vigorous scrubbing at his marked skin and some water from the jug by his desk to tame his thick, black hair.

“Is there a question you wish to ask, my King?” Altaïr prompted, his white guard robes flashing in Malik’s peripheral vision as the guardsman made his way towards the window to overlook the other guards training in the courtyard.

“I wish to know if the supposed monsters you chase away are a figment of your imagination or his,” Malik asked, his dark eyes examining Altaïr’s reflection in the plate, watching his reaction. His guardsman shifted, a new tension in his shoulder and a defensive bow to his head.

“Not all monsters are imaginary. My King,” he tacked on at the end, his own molten eyes seeking Malik’s from underneath the shade of his white hood. Malik held his gaze for a moment before Altaïr broke the eye contact and returned to his viewing of his new recruits.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” a messenger called from the door, his voice still clear despite having his face aimed at the ground in his low bow. “The representatives of the Merchant’s Guild have arrived early, how would you like to proceed?” he asked.

“Bring them in,” Malik ordered, glancing at Altaïr and seeing him frown deeply as he watched over the guardsmen in the courtyard. “Once you have returned, I’d like you to take a list of Head Guard Ibn La’ahad’s notes down to the training coordinator,” the king added. The messenger nodded, leaving to complete his duties.

“I have notes?” Altaïr asked with a small upward quirk to his lips.

“Not necessarily written down but you obviously take issue with some of the trainees’ progress. Else you would not have that sneer on your face whenever they execute a strike,” Malik replied, pushing a blank piece of parchment and a quill in its inkwell towards the side of the desk closest to Altaïr.

“Would it not be more beneficial for them if I were to go and give the notes to them myself?”

“I wish for them to improve in their abilities. Not resign from the guard or become victim to your low tolerance for anyone incapable of immediate perfection.”

Altaïr let out a huff of air that could be considered a laugh, taking the pen in hand and scribbling down his notes for the instructor as the messenger led the representatives into Malik’s office, the older men taking a seat opposite the King after showing him a respectful bow. The messenger appeared at Altaïr’s side only long enough to take the note before he sped out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

The meeting held none of Altaïr’s interest, his only requirement for being there was whether or not the men carried a blade or poison intended for the king. But there was no ill will, nary a frown in the midst of the conversation so Altaïr allowed himself to observe the new recruits to the guard.

None of positive note.

“ _ Alharis _ Ibn La’ahad,” Malik called, the disapproving scowl on Altaïr’s face smoothing out into stoicism as he turned to regard the king, hands clasped behind his back in parade rest. The merchants remained seated, watching Altaïr expectantly.

“My King?”

“How are preparations for the festival?” Malik asked, a minor tilt of his head towards Altaïr, watching the man as he moved from the window, slowly pacing the length of the room.

“Last month’s recruits are ready for the final induction into the guard and will be posted around the centre of the city for the duration of the festival. The current guardsmen have received their orders and have been testing new patrol routes to include the sector added for the foreign performers,” Altaïr informed  Malik, his usual barbs in regards to certain recruits and his disdain for the festival in general remaining unsaid in front of company. The dynamic he shared with the king would not be seen as anything other than insubordination and insolence and would force Malik’s hand, leaving Malik with a lesser bodyguard and Altaïr held in the cells beneath the complex for two days.

“Your work protecting the city has been a godsend,” one of the merchants praised Altaïr before turning to address Malik, “your father, may he rest in peace, did well in allowing  _ Alharis _ Ibn La’ahad into the ranks so young,” he added with a sincere smile but the words themselves made Altaïr stiffen, his jaw clenching and his nails digging into the palms of his hands as he held his tongue. Malik glanced at Altaïr noting his reaction and thanking the merchants for coming to meet so early, sending them away with the messenger that always seemed to appear at just the right moment for these jobs.

As soon as the door clicked shut and the king and his soldier were alone, a silent tension blanketed over them while Altaïr’s shoulders shook with restrained rage, Malik motioned towards a covered painting by the door. By the time his hand went from its outstretched position to resting on the desk by his notes from the meeting, Altaïr had already crossed the room and ripped the cloth away from the painting, drawing his dagger from his right hip and driving it into the stony face depicted in the portrait, hearing the subtle scrape as the tip of the blade dug into the stone behind the canvass.

“Does it confuse them? The painters you commission for these portraits, having to paint your father, again and again but the portrait is never seen in the fortress halls?” Altaïr asked, sheathing his blade and turning to walk back towards the window, sparing a glance for his king who seemed unbothered by the outburst.

“I received many portraits of him from ‘grieving’ foreign nationals upon his passing, I am merely clearing space by allowing you to vent your frustrations,” Malik replied.

“And these markings,” Altaïr murmured, fingers tracing over small tears in the canvas, hidden by the darkness of the old king’s pupils and his hair. “I do not remember making them. Perhaps these paintings  have been the target of someone else’s vented frustrations as well?” The guardsman mused, knowing full well the answer to his question. Malik said nothing, the office remaining silent but not unpleasantly so until Prince Kadar arrived for his lessons on ruling the kingdom.


End file.
